


Toil and Trouble

by slaughtersawyers (newmoonmayhem)



Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Smut, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17236007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoonmayhem/pseuds/slaughtersawyers
Summary: You use your beauty to convince Vincent to not encase you in wax.





	Toil and Trouble

You had never been so scared before in your life than you were being hauled through the old house by this shaggy-haired, mask wearing man. You did not know the identity of your captor, nor what he wanted. 

However, when he strapped you to a table, and you saw the wax around you, and having been in the wax museum... you had a pretty good idea. You were sobbing- you certainly didn't want to spend the end of your life with the pain of wax encasing your skin until you slowly rotted away inside. The man looked you over as he prepared his tools, his eyes tracing your features and the curves of your body with admiration. Aware you couldn't fight back, he allowed his hand to trace down your stomach with admiration for what surely would be his latest masterpiece. 

"You- you don't want to kill me!" You choked out, and he paused, and looked at you, his hand not removing itself from your body but stilling. You saw he expected you to give a reason beyond just a general plea for your life.

Your eyes fell on the hand that sat on your stomach, and, registering the admiring way he beheld your form, you quickly thought of an argument. "It would ruin the art!"

He did not seem to understand how it would ruin the art, he was the artist, after all, but he you heard the sound of him sitting a tool back down at your side onto the table. You were making headway. 

"You... You could see me to fruition. Like a living piece of art. Throughout all stages of my life. A kind of art you don't have, natural, uncontrolled art." You spoke. He seemed to consider this. You weren't even sure the argument you were making made sense, but it seemed to be working. "You love your work, don't you? You love the art? Well, what if the art could love you back?"

Of course, at the time, you didn't mean it genuinely. You were willing to say whatever would get you off that table, so that you'd even have a chance at freedom. However, as his hand moved up, to gently touch your face, you realized he took you utterly at your word, that this beautiful specimen before him would love him. You wondered if he'd ever been loved, before, in a romantic sense- considering he seemed to be a mask wearing recluse, you doubted it. 

But you needed to encourage him on.

"I'll stay here, with you. I'll kiss you, and love you," You promised, falsehoods dripping from your tongue. "You can explore me in ways you can't explore a statue." At that, he looked up. His gaze trailed down towards your jeans. "Yeah, like that. Just like that."

He left the table, for a moment, and returned with a knife. You thought, at first, that perhaps he had realized you were lying, and that he intended to kill you instantly. But instead, he carefully lifted the that which covered your chest and tore it in two, leaving your upper body exposed. 

The man liked the words you said, but he didn't fully trust you. Not yet.

You had a feeling what you would have to do to earn that trust.

He unbuttoned your jeans with care, and slid down your pants and underwear. He observed your folds with curiosity, the restraints on the table keeping your legs spread for him to view. Gently, he slid a finger inside, and began to slide it in and out, and then curl it open and closed within you. He studied your face carefully for every reaction it would make. You bit your lip, feeling the beginning of sexual heat starting inside of you. 

He slid another finger in. He was clearly inexperienced, yet he seemed to have a decent amount of knowledge of the technicality involved. You figured you shouldn't be too surprised at his skill with his hands, though; the man was, after all, technically an artist. He pulled his fingers out only for his thumb to trace your clit for a few moments, and then to slide them back into their wet and sticky residence. You felt your arousal growing, and your pussy relaxing. 

He looked at you with a curious gaze, and then stepped away for a moment, only to return with a small bowl with a handle. Gently, he dripped wax onto your abdomen. You didn't know why he did this; was he interested in seeing how you would react? Did he wish to see your pain? Did he wish to incorporate his art into your carnal activities? He certainly didn't say, but you let out a cry of pain as the wax hit your skin. He allowed his other hand to slide back in between your legs as he continued to drizzle wax over your abdomen like a light drizzle of frosting. The pain with the pleasure was quite a lot to take in, and you found yourself caught between the screams the wax induced and the pleasured sighs his fingers commanded.

When he ran out of wax (thankfully, he hadn't gotten a lot), he finally positioned himself to enter you. You found, as he slid in and began to buck his hips, he was as gentle as a lamb. His motions were soft and contained, yet hit you in all the right paces. As he continued to rock himself back and forth inside you, he leaned forward over you, brushing your hair with his fingers and caressing your face. You'd never imagined sex could be so tender. The wax which ran in little rivulets across your stomach was finally starting to cool and harden, but you imagined he would be just as gentle with removing it as he was with satisfying your sex.

You felt yourself building up to a climax, and your partner seemed to realize it too. His moves were still just as soft as before, but became a tad more frantic, working to keep both of you in pace together. As orgasm began to wrack your body, he allowed himself to experience relief as well.

He hovered over you for a moment, staring down at your face, stroking your hot cheeks. Then he removed himself, and got up, and with a rag, gently began to clean you off like the piece of art you were. He filled every touch with adoration, and you considered that, perhaps, you could stay around a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Also on my tumblr, @slaughtersawyers


End file.
